


Useful in Tight Places

by Jennichi



Series: Bancoran/Maraich 30 Kisses Challenge [6]
Category: Patalliro!
Genre: 30 Kisses Challenge, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Theme #14 radio-cassette player
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 04:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17318183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennichi/pseuds/Jennichi
Summary: MI6 shouldn’t even be involved in this mess; it hadn’t rated a front-page article in any of the international papers, there were no bleeding-hearts out to stop the violence with more violence yet. No, but his superiors had orders, and someone wanted to dip their finger into this pie.





	Useful in Tight Places

Sometimes it was the old equipment that was the most dependable. The new wireless broadcaster had stopped working sometime after the last explosion, and he suspected it had something to do with the strange bursts of radiation his Geiger was picking up. The other side wasn’t worried about following international nuclear test bans or treaties to the letter, that was for certain.

Bancoran was stretched out along the I-beam with a dizzying view of the warehouse below, and he could feel the flakes of rust grinding into his black suit as he balanced precariously. His target was in clear view, and his voice carried up into the shadows where Bancoran was waiting. In Ban’s left hand a cassette player whirred softly, loyally recording every word. His gun was in his right hand, safety off and ready should anyone bother to look up.

Another explosion rocked the building, and he tightened his legs around the beam until he could feel the bruises forming. It sounded like World War III was beginning outside. Sweat dripped down his face. _God damnit, where’s my backup?_

He had three men stationed outside, a little distance from the firefight. Someone should have been sent to investigate when his broadcaster shorted out. No one had arrived yet, and he worried that one side or the other in this stupid, pea-sized civil war had gotten to them. The whole country was in uproar, had been for over a month now. _All ten square miles of it,_ he thought sourly.

MI6 shouldn’t even be involved in this mess; it hadn’t rated a front-page article in any of the international papers, there were no bleeding-hearts out to stop the violence with more violence yet. No, but his superiors had orders, and someone wanted to dip their finger into this pie.

He was glad Maraich was well clear of it. The boy was home in London, blissfully unaware that this mission was anything more than routine. It should have been routine.

There, the men below had finished their meeting and were parting with the standard muttering of pleasantries. Most of them were civilians, and they seemed spooked by the gunfire and other blasts, which sounded as if they were coming closer. Bancoran watched them shuffle out, each surrounded by their own well-armed bodyguard.

Mission accomplished: he had the evidence of complicity that he had been sent to find, safely stashed on cassette. So long as the radiation didn’t erase the tape, of course. He pocketed the player and holstered his gun, shifting carefully to get his blood flowing once again. His leg cramped, and he froze, cursing softly. Falling and breaking his neck was not the death he envisioned for himself. With clenched teeth he inched forward along the beam, pausing to grip tightly whenever a spasm worked its way up his calf.

He nearly lost his hold when he reached the wall and was rotating around for a better grip, but recovered in time and slid ungracefully to the floor. There was a strange, squat form waiting for him.

“Major Bancoran,” it said from the shadows.

His gun was out and fired by pure reflex, but he must have missed, because the man coughed and tilted to one side, but was otherwise unharmed. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Franks,” the man said, patting ineffectually at his pockets as if he was looking for something. He had on a shabby overcoat and shapeless coat, and a wire-thin line of mustache quivered on his upper lip. “Lee Franks. Look, we’re short on time here, so you’re going to have to follow me.”

“Oh, really?”

“YES!” Franks exploded, before flipping back into quiet nervousness. “I’ve been sent to show you the way out. This place is smack in the center of the battle now.” As if to prove his point, bullets rattled against the side of the building.

Bancoran refused to budge. “Sent by who?”

“By—uh—by…”

There was a strange rumbling sound, and then the whistle of a falling object. “Down!” Bancoran jumped forward, grabbing the little man and flattening him to the ground near a stack of crates.

The world exploded.

 

* * *

 

Light. Darkness. Light again, and voices though they were blurred beyond all recognition. Space aliens, maybe? He remembered dreaming strange dreams where reality twisted and inverted itself and solid things turned fluid. Maybe he had been gassed.

One of the voices wavered, started forming words and sentences. “…fine. He just needs some rest.” It was definitely bordering on irritable.

“He’s lucky I was there!” This one was high-pitched and amused. “But he’ll never admit I saved his life. Again.”

“Patarillo, you’re waking him up! Get him out of here.”

There was a shuffle of feet and bodies and the young king was carried out, probably by his army of strange retainers. He protested—loudly—the whole way, and his wailing voice faded too slowly for Bancoran’s taste.

“Ban?” Soft voice, soft hands. “You awake?”

“No.”

That earned him a chuckle and a butterfly-soft kiss for each eye. He smiled and opened his eyes at last, squinting at the sudden light. “Maraich.”


End file.
